It’s one of those things that happens somewhere else. Unfortunately, Montreal is somewhere else to the rest of the world.

A man, reportedly in his mid-20s, walked into Dawson College in Montreal with an automatic weapon, opened fire against a mass contingent of students in the cafeteria, and eventually either turned the gun against himself, or was shot by police. There have been conflicting reports throughout the course of the day; some say there were up to three shooters, others give different descriptions. What has been confirmed is that two are dead (including the shooter) and at least nineteen have been injured (several seriously). No motive has been established.

Dawson College is part of the CEGEP network, the brief post-high school/pre-university phase we all go through in Québec. Many of my high school friends studied there, while I went through John Abbott College. I can’t think of anyone right now, but I’m certain that I know current students of Dawson; there are only a handful of options for English-speaking students, and Dawson is definitely the most central one.

I was only 8 years old when a gunman entered École Polytechnique in Montreal, killing fourteen young women before killing himself. I didn’t quite realize the ramifications of the event at the time. I was probably in Grade Three at the time; I remember writing about it for the “Current Events” journal we needed to keep back then.

It’s incredibly frightening that such people exist in our own backyards. What are their motivations? How can someone foster that much hate, that they would be willing to just start killing people randomly? This is not Iraq or Palestine where people are growing up in the midst of violence, where everyday is a nightmare. This is Montreal, the home of hockey and smoked meat sandwiches; where does such hatred come from?

There is currently a murderer on the loose in downtown Vancouver, accused of killing a number of homeless people in the last few weeks. The murders have been occuring on the streets I walk everyday, yet no one knows exactly who is responsible, or what their motivation may be. The sad reality is that some people need no motivation; they have simply lost any trace of humanity they once had.

The motivation for the Dawson shootings remain unclear; perhaps, we’ll never know. Media reports stated that there was no clear link to terrorism, but whatever happened clearly was an effort to terrorize innocent people. I imagine that for some twisted individuals, the posthumous glory is enough of a motivation; after all, there were several incidents of “copycats” in the wake of the Columbine massacre. The children responsible for that atrocity have left something of a legacy, however morbid. Whatever the motivation, there can be no justification. The students will never be the same, nor will the school itself.

For the average person like me, it hurts to feel so helpless. Being helpless against aggression and hatred overseas doesn’t worry me as much as it should, because the physical distance is a legitimate barrier. But when you see and hear of these sorts of atrocities from your own city, it’s another story altogether. Like many of us felt eleven years ago after the Toope murders, we are forced to ask ourselves, is there anything we could have done?

It’s a bit of a conundrum; we’d like to think we can do something to prevent such senseless acts, but at the same time, we don’t want to hold ourselves responsible. No matter what anyone does, no matter what efforts are in place to prevent such incidents, there will always be people who fall through the cracks.

Hopefully, we’ll see the details unfold over the next few days as the investigation begins. Unfortunately, none of those details will change anything, nor make this any less of a crime against humanity, nor will it alleviate the suffering of any of the victims. Investigators will investigate, reporters will report, and bloggers will blog, but that will not stop haters from hating or murderers from murdering.

May we all be protected from hatred, injustice, and aggression. Ameen.

With all the difficulties going on in the world today, I thought it was time to be a bit nostalgic.

In October 2001, with tensions still high after the attacks in New York and Washington a month earlier, I was riding on Bus 97 towards Bayshore with one of my closest friends. We were both wearing Saudi “thobes” on the bus, and were likely under suspicion already. Regardless, I was in a good mood, and things were soon to become brighter.

While still in downtown, a familiar face walked on to the bus. At first, I didn’t recognize him, but then I recalled him as one of my close friends in my CEGEP days; I hadn’t seen him in at least two years, and seeing him in Ottawa after knowing him only in Montreal was quite a strange coincidence. His name was Jihad, he was of Lebanese origin. Jihad is a common name meaning “struggle”, but is often misinterpreted as an evil word in the traditional Western lexicon.

So when I realized who it was, I burst with enthusiasm, jumped out of my seat, and yelled out on the crowded bus, “JIHAD!!!”

It wasn’t until the next day that I realized that I must have freaked out dozens of terrified passengers with an open declaration of holy war.

Several months ago, I wrote how technology is corrupting the English language.

Things are getting worse: Push for simpler spelling persists.

Update 8.2.2006: And apparently, technology isn’t a problem after all.
Texting helps teens’ grammar | Toronto Star

The ironic part is the “verbing” of the word “text” in the title of the article. Either way, I’m not convinced by the results of the study.

It has been exactly eleven years since one of the most haunting incidents of my young life. I meant to write about this last year after ten years had passed, but I didn’t want to put a damper on my good mood at the time. I had just returned to Canada after three months overseas, and I was far too happy to dwell on the incident.

I was 13 years old, in the eighth grade, and struggling academically. I wasn’t bothered by the poor grades; my popularity seemed to be inversely proportional to my academic performance. When I was the top student in the school, I was also desperately lonely and unhappy. When my grades took a plunge in my second year of high school, I found myself gravitating towards a new crowd of friends. Some of them shared many of the same interests I did; in particular, the classic videogame Doom - state-of-the-art at the time. And primarily for that one reason, I fit in. At 13, popularity was the most important thing, and if it meant discussing violent video games with unstable teenagers, then so be it.

I can’t remember why, but I took the city bus home from school on April 3rd, 1995. And I can’t remember why I was waiting for the bus somewhere in between my school and home, but there I was, across the street from the scene of a crime. There must have been at least 15 police cars lined up, and police tape sealing off most of the houses on that side of the street. This was highly unusual for this part of town; I lived in a very peaceful neighbourhood, and for many, police cars simply meant a free ride home.

I asked a few people waiting at the bus stop with me as to what was going on, but no one knew at the time.

I got home, somewhat confused but eager to think about something else. I went downstairs, turned on my computer, and started playing Doom. I was interrupted shortly afterwards, as a friend had called and told me the news.

“Did you hear about the murders?” my friend asked.

“On St. Charles? I saw a bunch of police cars just a little while ago.”

“Yeah, it was …” He mentioned the name of a friend, which I can’t mention today by law. At first, I thought he was telling me that this friend was murdered, which would have been shocking enough. I was horrified to learn that the friend was, in fact, the murderer.

All the details came quickly. Three kids from my high school, between the ages of 13 and 15, had broken into the house of a retired priest and his wife. The victims were aged 75 and 70 years old, and were highly respected in the community. In fact, the priest was such a popular figure that he had a street named after him even before his death.

As the classmates, we were privy to lots of inside information. There were others at the house, who also got high on LSD and drunk on margueritas before the attack. We knew of others who were probably involved, but were never implicated in the investigation. We knew from before that the particular house was selected for robbery because one of the murderers never received tips from the owners as their newspaper delivery boy.

But the most gruesome details came when the autopsy revealed how the elderly couple was actually murdered. After the children broke into their house, they beat them to death with baseball bats and broken beer bottles. The former priest was believed to have been defending himself, given the tremendous bruising on his forearms. But he was an old man, and his wife an old woman. There was nothing they could do against the drug-induced rage of the children.

As all this unfolded, I recalled statements from some of my other friends, about the shady personalities I had begun associating with. One mentioned one of them intending to rob a house. Another alluded to the drug use. One of them clearly recalled the eldest of the three expressing a desire to kill someone.

This was all before Columbine, but I couldn’t help but feel nervous because of the Doom association. At the time, video game violence wasn’t in the media much; in fact, video games were still the domain of the socially awkward. The thoughts lingered on for years that, maybe, perhaps the influence of a video game pushed these kids over the edge.

In the aftermath of the murders, I realigned myself to my academically strong but socially unpopular roots. And to my joy, I found my place, simply by being myself. I didn’t need to put on an act to fit in with a certain crowd, a crowd that could have taken me down a dreadful path had the murders not woken me up. For the most part, I put the incident past me, but some images still come back from time to time.

There is so much insanity in the world. I don’t claim to understand any of it, but I do hold that there are lessons that must be learned from the chaos.

I started writing this entry shortly after the conference from March 4th-5th, but took an extended break to offer only irrelevant stories about Tim Hortons… so here it is finally, posted much later.

I am not a big fan of large Islamic conferences. I went to the Reviving the Islamic Spirit conference once, but it didn’t strike me as something I felt necessary to attend annually. I fully support the brothers and sisters who are taking the time and effort to organize these, but recognized that I personally benefit more from smaller, less glamorous efforts. So when a group of students at my alma mater decided to hold an Islamic conference in Ottawa, I was skeptical but slightly intrigued.

First, a little background. Throughout the course of my university studies, there was a major decline in the involvement of the Muslims on campus. When I first started, the students were recovering from a spiritual lull that was apparently going on for years. My personal introduction to the MSA was not particularly graceful; I accidentally dropped a plate of curry on the MSA president’s head. That forgettable incident aside, I quickly found my place, and our tight circle of friends began to expand. Within my first couple of semesters, things started moving quickly; people were involved, happy, and things were happening. Above all, the core of the MSA was united, dedicated, and fully committed to the community and one another.

Things started declining in late 2002 and early 2003. Perhaps it began in Ramadhan 2002, when allegations began about possible extortion of MSA Ramadhan funds. While the issue was resolved, the whole issue left a sour taste; people began having misgivings about the direction things were heading. When some of the key members started suffering academically, it only made it easier to doubt the efforts of the MSA. Something was amiss.

Rumours began to spread about some of the core members, and the tight community that was UOMSA started disintegrating. While activities continued to happen, the people running them were themselves losing any inclination towards being involved in the community. Rumours continued to surface, and many comments were misinterpreted as a result. After weeks of festering, all the lies, rumours, and miscommunication resulted in a complete breakdown of the once tight community; internally, we still refer to this period as The Fitnah.

And that core that I was so proud of during my early years fell apart. One graduated. Another went through a devastating quarter-life crisis. One vanished from the public sphere, while another fought hard to disappear himself. Most of the active members became disillusioned with the shura of the MSA, the loosely connected group of alumni and elders who selected the MSA executive each year. While amends were made eventually, everyone passed through The Fitnah changed and disaffected.

For over a year, things languished. Few cared anymore, and those who did care did not have the respect of the others. The system had broken down, and it remained that way until I graduated.

Over the course of the next year, I’m told, things remained stagnant, and there weren’t any promising signs that things would change anytime soon.

Given the plight of the community, I was not the only one slightly skeptical about the prospect of a large-scale conference hosted by our MSA. At the same time, I had a faint hope that perhaps this would precisely be the mechanism by which the community can be woken up again.

And thus it was. The conference was an incredible success, and the volunteers were second to none. It was among the best organized events I had attended since I came to Ottawa, and will hopefully set a new standard. Even with last-minute cancellations and awkward circumstances, the event worked. What was most amazing was the fresh new set of faces behind the scenes; finally, perhaps, some of the older faces can move on.

I just hope it lasts.

I’d like to think I’m not that old. I don’t feel very far removed from high school, CEGEP and University, but I already find myself sounding antiquated, waxing nostalgic about “back in my day…” I often find myself discussing how children today have no idea about anything, just as my parents probably thought of me and my world. I fear for the coming generation, raised on Google and TiVo, where anything less than instant gratification is not enough. I worry about the overwhelming stupidity which accompanies the high school culture that students are growing up in. I worry about the few options available for Muslim children to be protected from all the nonsense in school.

So when I was asked to help some struggling Muslim middle-school students with English and Math, I accepted without hesitation. The children I am tutoring right now are fairly recent immigrants, and their parents have absolutely no idea about the world their kids are living in. Thus, I take my responsibility as a tutor very seriously; not just as one who can teach grammar and geometry, but as one who made it through that challenge of trying to hold on to some religious values while somehow fitting in.

But even leaving aside all the Islamic/Western culture issues, there is still so much wrong with the way children are being educated today - particularly in Ontario. I recall elementary school evenings when our assigned homework would include answering 50-100 math problems. For us, it wasn’t enough to simply understand the concepts - we needed to be extremely efficient in taking numbers and deriving results from them. Multiplication tables were drilled into us. In the end, the students - even the weaker ones - were computational machines with minds that were capable of processing a lot of data. It wasn’t fun, and we all hated it at the time.

Today, a typical math textbook is a colourful scrapbook full of pictures of multicultural, trendy teenagers saying things like “Math is cool!” or “I can use geometry to design a ramp for my skateboard!” As I teach my students, I study their textbooks closely; looking through them, I realize that their brains are not processing anything. I had to help one of my students with a problem which involved putting together a ramp for a circus trick; underneath the ramp, there had to be room for a performer to hide. Without giving any numbers except for the cost of materials - 16.50$/m² - students were asked to “discuss” how the performers should design the ramp. In the end, there are rarely actual answers - just “discussions”. While it may sound like a good idea to have students discuss applications of what they study, no students actually discuss these things; in the end, they don’t actually do anything except draw a few pointless diagrams. Unfortunately, this is usually enough to give them the marks they need. As Calvin correctly observed, all students are learning is how to manipulate the system.

I had the fortune of having some excellent English teachers throughout high school and CEGEP. When I entered high school, I was admitted into the advanced program. As a grade seven student, highly experienced at the age of 13, I was insulted when our Advanced English teacher told us she was going to teach us grammar. My classmates and I thought to ourselves, “what do we need grammar for? We’re the smart students!” Little did we know how much we had to learn. And while students of the regular English classes laughed at us for learning grammar, I knew that I was learning something valuable. Ultimately, I learned more in that one year than many of my friends learned throughout all of high school.

During CEGEP, I participated in the John Abbott College Writing Tutors programme, a special English course reserved for the better writers in the college. Our professor did not teach us classical literature or essay writing; she taught us how to teach. Our reading material was a combination of timeless essays about writing itself, and a collection of poorly written student essays. Our job was to understand where other students struggle, and how to rectify their situation. She taught me that critical thinking was something that can be taught, and that it is the foundation of all writing skills. She used to rail against the education system for assuming that Anglophone students will know how to write English, and for failing to teach grammar and critical thinking from the outset.

The students I teach, in grades 7 and 8, have never learned grammar. When I told them that I was going to teach them as I had been taught, they thought I would be wasting their time as it appeared to be unrelated to what they were actually doing. (What one was actually doing was making a bristol board presentation about the top ten events in his life during 2005 - the sort of mindless busy work that my Writing Tutors professor cringed at.) I quickly discovered, however, how important it was - they could not determine which words were nouns, adjectives, or verbs in a sentence. Seemingly, they had never been taught these terms, though they had been educated in British Columbia for 4 years prior to coming to Ontario in 2004. Today, I feel a sense of pride when my students can pick out not just basic word types, but can also identify different types of phrases, understand how appositives are used, and identify subjects and predicates in any sentence. My next lesson is on dependant and independant clauses.

The main objective of all of this is to eventually bring the students to a point where they can critically think about an issue, and articulate their feelings about these issues. I once had a discussion with a friend about the importance of teaching Critical Thinking from a young age. This friend grew up in Saudi Arabia, where Critical Thinking was never taught - in any language. I have spoken with many other immigrants who all attest to the fact that they were never expected to objectively analyze opinions or literature; they were only expected to write gramatically correct sentences. None of them ever understood logical fallacies until learning about them in University, nor did they learn how to structure arguments, or how to maintain a cohesive thesis. These things simply were not taught. Somehow, this eerily reminded me of Orwell’s 1984, where the vocabulary itself prevented citizens of Oceania from formulating critical opinions about their society.

I have no real background in Education, nor have I ever been at the front of a classroom teaching 30-40 students simultaneously, so perhaps my lofty ideals on education are not practical on a large scale. I still feel, however, that there is so much more that can be done. Children should not be using calculators in the second grade. Children should not be relying on computer spellchecks and grammar checks from such a young age. Children need to learn that there is more to research than Google and Wikipedia. Something must be done to challenge these young minds to prevent the stagnation that will likely occur otherwise.

I may continue along this theme with a later post, as I haven’t even started on the social aspects of high school education. That’s where things really get messy.

I was just informed that my former English and Drama teacher passed away on the first of this month, after struggling with cancer for some time. Through her influence, I went from being a shy, introverted child to someone capable of standing before hundreds of people to tell meaningless jokes. I used to be unable to speak in front of anyone older than myself, and she had me doing somersaults in front of nearly a thousand.

It has been nearly seven years since I left high school, but the effects that Linda McKenty had on me and hundreds of other students live on. She did her part as a teacher, hopefully the truth came to her before death.

“…or in the dealings with my own Soul before my Maker.”

A short excerpt from the Obligation taken at the Ritual of the Calling of an Engineer, written by Rudyard Kipling in 1923. One of the closing comments in the Iron Ring ceremony was to pray hard, and to never lose grip of the spiritual side of ourselves. Four spheres of life were spoken of: one’s social and family life, one’s recreational life, one’s professional life, and one’s spiritual life. And the speaker called for balance in all aspects.

The Obligation, and all that went with it were very much in line with Islamic tenets and beliefs. Above all else, it symbolized the accountability those of the Engineering profession have to their world. The decisions we will make will have a heavy impact on society as a whole.

Another interesting point to note. Among the scripted dialogue in the ceremony was an exchange in which the speaker asked the individual speaking on behalf of the candidates “What do you know?” The candidate replies by saying something like “Nothing, except that I know nothing.” The speaker then states that that is a solid foundation upon which to build.

This is very similar to an exchange that the Imam conducting the Traditional Halaqah Series cited when speaking of his graduation from the madrasah. To acknowledge that we have barely scraped the surface of knowledge with our education is a solid foundation upon which to further ones lifelong education. There is so much to learn, and arrogance in knowledge is one of the first signs of ignorance.

On another note … the Fudge Overboard at Red Lobster was so good…especially with that extra strawberry sauce…